The luggage arrived as he was leaving. The instant they were alone, Henry covered the room in long strides and double-locked the door. “We’ve had our first acid test,” he whispered. “That has to be Hasna Ibn Saata in there.”
Sunday pulled off the black wig that was making her scalp vaguely itchy. Her blond hair tumbled on her shoulders. “Who is he and why the acid test?” She realised she was whispering.
Henry looked around and put a warning finger to his lips. He went over to the television, turned it on, and put his lips to her ear. “I don’t think this room is bugged, but we might as well take precautions. Saata is the confidant and advisor of the sultan of Ahman, which is our first stop on the trip. The hidden city of the silver stone is a must-see.
“The sultan and I became close friends when we were at Harvard and he took me there almost twenty-five years ago. It has a rich history and its warren of hidden caves and secret passages played a major role in the ancient history of Ahman. That’s the part of the country where I learned to ride a camel and got pretty good at speaking Arabic.”
“Can you still speak it?”
“Not much opportunity to brush up, I’m afraid. I can understand it fine, but I’d have to make myself understood in pidgin Arabic now.
“While on those trips together,” Henry continued, “Hasna would often come over to brief the sultan on internal affairs in Ahman. That plainclothesman was Hasna’s chief of security, al Hez.”
“He really looked us over,” Sunday whispered back.
“I know he did, and I’m sure he didn’t recognise us. He’s always been a cheeky sort, but he saved Hasna’s life years ago and of course can do no harm as far as the sultan is concerned. I only wish we could stop in on Mac while we’re in his kingdom.”
“Mac?”
“That’s the sultan’s nickname. At Harvard he was crown prince, and we all knew that before too long he’d be one of the last absolute monarchs alive. His full name is Muhammad Abdul a Faisam, but he loved McDonald’s burgers so much that one of the guys started calling him Mac. He got such a kick out of it that the name caught on. I doubt many people are using it now.”
“Didn’t he make a state visit when you were president?”
“Yes, he did. He brought his son, the present crown prince, and his eighteen-year-old daughter. Mac’s exactly my age, forty-four, but he married young. His entire kingdom trembles at his glance, but that night his daughter took so long to get ready that they were half an hour late, which simply isn’t done at a state dinner. When Mac apologised to me he said, “Henry, wasn’t it Theodore Roosevelt who said that he could either run the country or run his daughter, Alice, but he couldn’t do both?”
“Sounds like a nice guy.”
“Nice but also formidable and very impressive. Like King Hussein and King Hassan, he’s a direct descendant of Muhammad, which is an extremely honourable state in the Islamic religion. Our CIA guys tell us there are rumours of trouble brewing, but so far no real evidence. With huge oil revenues pouring into the country, that sort of thing is bound to happen. I have a feeling that my friend next door is going around getting support from the neighbouring countries to make sure any rebels won’t find outside support. Now wash your face and put your wig back on. The Potters are going for a walk before dinner.”
Later, when they were settled for the night, Sunday whispered drowsily, “Henry, this is such fun, just being touristy and no one fussing over us. Mumbai is a marvellous city.”
“Another time we’ll see India properly. Now go to sleep. We board the Bel-Mare right after breakfast.”
In the morning when they left their room to check out, the door of the next suite opened and a frail, elderly man came out, accompanied by the man Henry had identified as the chief security officer. Sunday tried to look nonchalant as she passed him, but then acknowledged his courteous nod. He was wearing traditional Arab dress and his fine, chiselled features were enhanced by the white burnoose that covered his head and neck.
I could imagine his face on a coin, she thought.
Henry did not comment until they were in a taxi on the way to the dock. “I was shocked to see Hasna look so frail,” he said. “He’s aged ten years since he was in Washington with Mac two years ago. Things must be worse in Ahman than our guys realise. The strong ties Mac has forged between his country and ours aren’t popular with some of his neighbours.” Then he shook his head. “Wait a minute. This is R and R for you, sweetheart. No political talk.”
And that’s like telling either one of us not to breathe, Sunday thought with amusement. She was enjoying herself thoroughly. Putting on the disguise and travelling without escorts made her feel as though for a very short time she and Henry could be as totally alone in a crowd as they were in their own suite at home.
And after a couple of weeks, we’ll both be anxious to get back in harness, she realised, but for the moment Capitol Hill seemed very far away.
Jack Collins, Henry’s senior Secret Service agent, had been aghast at the plan. “Mr. President, I absolutely have to tell you that it is dangerous, it is foolish, it is reckless.” Then he’d stopped, afraid he’d overstepped himself.
Henry had clasped him on the shoulder. “And it’s also necessary. Come on, Jack. You’ll be glad to have two weeks off, admit it.”
“Not like this, sir. Will we at least know your itinerary?”
“I’m afraid the President has insisted that I leave it here. It’s in a sealed envelope in my desk, which will not be opened unless Sims doesn’t hear from us regularly by either phone or fax.”
Sunday smiled to herself, remembering the shocked expression on Jack Collins’s face when he heard that arrangement.
The cab pulled up to the gangplank of the Bel-Mare. The ocean liner was on a world cruise and they were sailing on the segment from Mumbai to Piraeus.
Nothing in Henry’s demeanour suggested that he was not entirely used to carrying his own tote bag and camera as they made their way up the gangplank with the hundred or so other passengers who were boarding the ship. However, when he saw their accommodations he looked dismayed. “Darling, there must be some mistake. I reserved a first-class cabin.”
“This is a first-class cabin, sir,” the steward said proudly.
When he was gone, Sunday said, “Henry, dear, it’s not trick photography. It is the cabin you reserved. It’s just that on ocean liners there’s an economy of space. Three years ago I went through the Panama Canal with a couple of my college buddies. The three of us were in a cabin half this size.”
“Amazing.” Henry sighed. “Simply amazing. The room in the Taj Mahal suddenly seems gigantic.” He frowned. “Why do I have a bad feeling about Hasna?” he asked. “I’m glad we’re going to Ahman, and not just for sightseeing. I’m beginning to wonder if things aren’t a lot worse there than we’ve been led to believe.”